


Two Bedrooms, and a Midnight Phone Call

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex pollen fic. The morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Bedrooms, and a Midnight Phone Call

Dick’s hand landed on the phone before he was fully awake. “Yeah,” he managed.

"Dick?"

Both his eyes flew open, and he pushed himself up from the mattress. It was the wrongness in the voice. “Tim, what’s happened?” Beside him, a warm body shifted. Dick placed a hand on the back to still any further movement, and forestall any possible noise.

"It’s—Bruce. He’s—I don’t know what to—"

The triphammer in Dick’s chest made it hard to hear anything over it. Bruce, a hole blown in his chest. Bruce, a lunatic’s knife slicing open his throat, hot blood staining the pavement. Bruce, poisoned—tortured— “Tell me what’s happened,” Dick said, his voice calm. 

Like Dick’s steady voice was giving him strength, Tim took a breath. “I didn’t go with him on patrol tonight. I have a test tomorrow. He said it would be fine. I didn’t think it was any big deal. He said—he said it was okay, but I shouldn’t have listened, I should have gone anyway, I should have—”

"Tim, you have to tell me what the matter is right now. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s happening." His fist was a tight knot in the sheets. A hand closed on his, resting there. Steadying him.

"He got dosed with something. I don’t know what’s wrong with him. I think—there was stuff on him, on the suit. it was—"

"Gold?"

"Yeah, kinda. I didn’t see much of it, but—"

"Tim, get to your room. Lock the door. Are you listening to me? Do exactly what I tell you, and do it fast. Don’t go anywhere near Bruce, do you hear me? Stay as far away as you can."

"No, it’s—" There was a muffled sound, like he was moving the phone. "It’s fine. He’s not—with me. I’m upstairs. I didn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t appear to be—in danger."

"Oh." Dick frowned. Unless he missed his guess, Tim was describing Ivy’s toxin. Bruce must have made it back to the cave in time to administer the antidote, but then why was Tim so worried?

"He’s, ah… he’s not alone."

Dick arched a brow. “Okay,” he said.

"I just… I need to know if it’s okay, for me to… leave them."

"Bruce was with someone when he got dosed? Who?"

There was a longish pause, and more shuffling, and then Tim’s voice, so low Dick had to strain to hear it. “Superman.”

Dick went very still as he thought. He didn’t recall Clark ever being dosed by Ivy before; he hadn’t really thought Clark would be physiologically susceptible, though there was no predicting Kryptonian physiology. But he had larger worries than alien biology right now. “Tim,” he said, and he kept his voice as calm as before. “You know what that toxin does to you.”

A whuff of breath. “Yeah, I figured that one out pretty quick.”

"There’s a strong possibility that—" He bit back a name, because of the attentive ears lying next to him, fully awake now. "The possibility exists Bruce could be seriously hurt. There’s an antitoxin in the cave. I can tell you where it is, but I could be there in—"

He shut his eyes. That was a stupid idea, unless Bruce happened to have any kryptonite-edged needles lying around the cave, and he would be willing to bet Bruce did, in fact, have kryptonite-edged needles lying around the cave, but not in any place Dick was likely to find. And Bruce would be in no condition to help them. And even if they could find a way to administer the serum to Clark, who was going to volunteer to bell that cat and jam the needle in him? What exactly was his plan for that part?

"Dick?"

"Yeah, still here. Just thinking. Look, I need you to tell me what you saw."

"What I… saw?"

"Yeah, just—did it look dangerous? Did it look like Bruce was getting hurt in any way?"

"Um…" He could hear the scratch of Tim’s breath. "I wouldn’t put it that way. I mean… I didn’t… see a lot. They came in, and I guess Superman had flown them, and they were covered in the stuff, and Bruce said, _Showers, now_ , and they went to hose themselves down, I guess to try to get the stuff off them, and… uh…"

"And?"

"And then they didn’t come out of the showers for a long time, and I went in there to check on them, because I didn’t know what had happened but I knew it probably wasn’t good, and then… so I went in."

"Okay."

"And they were… they… um…" Tim’s ability to yoke noun and verb had apparently met a dead end.

"But Bruce was okay?"

"Yes," Tim said, his voice something of a squeak at this point.

"He wasn’t in pain?"

"Well, he… he was… um, making noise. But I don’t think it was… it didn’t seem like he was… being hurt."

"Okay. Okay, you did good. What I honestly think, Tim, is that you’d better leave them to it, then. That stuff wears off in a couple of hours," (slight fib there; the last time he was dosed it had taken eight hours for his body’s aching need to subside) "and if it seemed like they were doing okay, and no one was getting hurt, then you’re better off leaving them alone than trying to administer an antidote. That would just put you in harm’s way."

"Dick. Come on, you don’t honestly think Bruce would hurt me."

"Listen to me, kid. On that stuff, you are out of your head. You are not yourself. Hell yes, you’d be in danger. Just stay away." _Not to mention you are fifteen and ridiculously gorgeous and to anyone with an elevated hormone level and dramatically lowered inhibitions you are catnip, little brother._ But he didn’t say that part out loud.

"Yeah. Okay. I mean, I guess you’re right. I mean, if he’d go at it with Superman, I guess he really is out of his mind, huh."

Dick let that one go by. “Right,” he said. “So just stay in your room, and call me if anything happens, okay?”

"Okay. And you really think he’ll be fine?"

"I really think he will. But you were right to call me. Always good to check in."

"Thanks, Dick." There was silence, but Tim didn’t seem to be hanging up the phone. "It’s just… "

"You okay?"

"Yeah. I was just saying, I’d never really… seen him that way."

Dick had no idea what to say to that. Never seen Bruce out of control? Yeah, that could be scary as shit, when the rock of your world was revealed to be as human and fallible as the next person. Never seen Bruce in a sexual situation? Disturbing to any kid, to see their parent (and he wasn’t sure to what degree Bruce occupied that niche in Tim’s brain) having sex. Maybe doubly disturbing, when you were just figuring things out when it came to your own body and sexuality. Triply disturbing, when said parent happened to look like a golden age movie idol and was built like a porn star.

A fleeting image of what Tim might have seen in the showers—of two rugged, hungry, muscled bodies standing under the shower, water slicking off the sturdy planes of their flesh, mouths devouring each other—danced across Dick’s brain, and he squashed it. Bruce would be humiliated enough that Tim had seen what he had, without Dick perving on him on top of that.

"Bruce is a guy like any other, Tim," he said. "It happens to the best of us."

"But is he…" The pause stretched itself out. "Never mind," Tim finally said. "I’m sorry. I need to let you get back to sleep."

"Okay. I’m here if you need me, Little Wing."

"I know."

"Call me in the morning and let me know how things are, yeah?"

"Yeah. Okay. Hey Dick?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"That’s what big brothers are for," he said, and he clicked off the phone. A hand gently lifted the phone from his grip and set it on the nightstand. He was tugged down onto the bed, and long warm arms enfolded him. Dick felt a rumble of laugh from the chest pillowing him.

"The replacement’s shitting a mountain of bricks, I’m guessing?"

"You won’t call him that," Dick said. "Ever again. He’s no more a replacement than you were."

"But I was," Jason said. "Difference is, I embrace it. I don’t need to lie to myself." He rolled them so they were side-by-side, and glanced at his watch. "I need to get gone."

"You’re the one who fell asleep here."

A finger scraped the side of his face. “You want me gone that bad,” Jason whispered.

"I don’t ever want you gone," Dick said, because what the hell. Really, what the fucking hell. Something about his conversation with Tim made him exhausted with telling lies and playing games and having to hide. Part of him envied Bruce right now, that he could be doing something so simple and elemental, so scrubbed clean of pretense and lies and subterfuge.

Jason’s hand fell away, and he watched Dick’s eyes. “Careful what you say,” he murmured. “I might start thinking you mean it.”

They were back to cat and mouse. But there had still been a hand that had closed on his in the dark, when he had thought it was bad news. Jason’s mouth said one thing, his body did another. Hard some weeks to know where the truth lay, and which one was lying. “Go on,” Dick said. “Get the hell out of my bed.”

"Okay," Jason said. "Sure thing. But first, why don’t you come down here and show me what else big brothers are for."

"Pervert."

"Yeah. That’s why your cock sits up and pays attention when I talk like that. You love it. Come on, come show me a thing or two. I’ve been a bad little brother. I’ve been so bad, you wouldn’t believe it."

"Stop talking," Dick said, and when they kissed he bit to the blood.

* * *

He woke and catalogued sensation: warmth, and gentle motion, and… more warmth. His sensation catalogue was something of a failure. Or not. There were two sources of each: there was the warmth that came from above—that would be sunlight on his back. There was the warmth that came from below. And that… that would be Bruce’s naked body he was resting on.

Holy shit.

His head was pillowed on an abdomen—Bruce’s abdomen. Holy, holy shit.

Every detail of the previous night spilled into his brain in a chaotic, merciless rush. Holy… he really wished he knew a better epithet than holy shit.

That didn’t solve the problem of the motion, though.

There were two sources of motion as well: the soft rise and fall of Bruce’s breathing beneath him, and… another thing. A hand that was stroking him. Bruce’s hand. Bruce was awake, and absently stroking him. Stroking his shoulder. In fact, it may have been what woke him.

Clark lifted his head. It was possibly the bravest thing he had ever done.

It was just Bruce, sitting slightly propped on pillows. Hair mussed, but eyes as sharp as ever. His eyes met Clark’s.

Holy shit. Holy, holy … well.

Clark put his head down, and the hand resumed its stroking. He shut his eyes. “Did I hurt you,” he managed to croak out. Because he remembered last night—you better believe he remembered every detail of it. At the time, the logical progression from _we need to hose this toxin off us immediately_ to _we need to grind naked and wet against each other until we are slicked with our own come_ had seemed perfectly clear to him. But just because he remembered everything didn’t mean he remembered it the right way. He had lost control. He had lost control during sex, and that was something he had never allowed to happen, could not allow to happen. The likelihood that he had hurt Bruce was… not small.

He was not small.

He had fucked Bruce. Fucked him hard, and his own pleasure had been intense, and in the haze of memory Bruce’s enjoyment had seemed equal to his, but what if he was re-writing Bruce’s cries of pain as something he had wanted to hear? What if—

"You did not hurt me," came the quiet rumble of Bruce’s voice above him. Clark had tightened his arms around Bruce’s hips before he realized where his arms were, and what he was doing. The soft stroking of his shoulder had not stopped. Another, even more horrible thought struck him right in the gut, and he raised his head again.

"Tim—Tell me we didn’t—"

"No."

"Thank God," Clark breathed, and put his head back down. He was pretty sure he remembered everything from last night, but there was always the possibility he was mistaken. If they had hurt Tim in any way, Bruce could never have survived that. He did have a very clear memory of Tim’s face, and the shock on it. That might have been right about the time he had wedged his cock into Bruce’s soap-slick ass and just started fucking him. He remembered the clutch of Bruce’s hand on his ass, the groaning sound Bruce had made every time he slammed into him, Bruce’s head tipping back onto his shoulder, open-mouthed and moaning as he got fucked the way he wanted… and then a fleeting glimpse of Tim’s face at the door to the showers. Thank God, thank every benevolent force in the universe, that Tim had backed away.

"This is not how I would have wanted this to happen," Clark said quietly, and the hand stroking him hitched in its movement.

"Nor I," Bruce said. Bruce’s hand stopped stroking, and rested beside him on the mattress. Clark raised his head and sat all the way up, now. Bruce was still just looking at him, and he looked back.

"What will you tell her," Bruce said, and Clark didn’t look away. The truth, was what he ought to say. But what truth was that? And where would the truth-telling stop? Would he say, _Lois, for reasons that were entirely beyond my control I slept with my best friend last night?_ Because that was the truth. Or would he also say, _Lois, I slept with my best friend last night, and for reasons that had nothing to do with any toxins it was the greatest sexual and emotional release of my life, and I have never, in anyone’s arms, felt what I felt last night, and what I feel this morning looking into his beautiful eyes?_

Because that too was the truth.

"I’ll think of something," Clark said, and Bruce’s brows flicked upward in surprise. Yes, Clark Kent had just acknowledged he was going to lie to his wife, but somehow, he couldn’t do it: couldn’t make what had happened between the two of them into a thing he talked about with Lois, or with anyone. It would feel like a violation, a violation deeper somehow than the violation of his own wedding vows. It would be to betray Bruce, to betray what had happened between them.

"It won’t happen again," Bruce said.

"No," Clark said. "It won’t."

The yawning gulf of that _won’t happen again_ carved a hole in his gut. He lunged forward and seized Bruce’s mouth with his own, and for these eleven seconds, he could tell the truth. Bruce’s hand curled around his neck, and Bruce was right there with him, kissing him back just as fierce. Clark could taste his own come in Bruce’s mouth, and knew Bruce could taste his. And from somewhere he would find the strength to get up from this bed and walk away, walk into the blinding, hollowing space of _won’t happen again_ , where he would live for the rest of his life.

He got up—there was a moment of vertiginous weakness, the last of the toxin, probably—and looked for his clothes, which were not in evidence, because of course, he had come here as Superman, not as Clark, and Superman’s clothes were somewhere downstairs in the Cave, and that was a whole other thing to worry about, because of all the things he remembered last night, how they got upstairs was not among them. Please God, he hoped he had done it at super-speed, and they hadn’t taken the long way and fucked on the stairs or anything that might further scar Tim or Alfred.

"Can I…"

"Sure," Bruce said, and Clark went to the enormous dressing room off the even more enormous and luxurious bathroom, and plucked some clothes that looked like they might fit him and were possibly not the most expensive thing in what was a terrifyingly expensive-looking wardrobe, and he slipped them on and came out and stood in the bedroom, where Bruce was now standing, wrapped in his bathrobe, and the bottom dropped out of Clark’s world. For a minute they stood there and looked at each other.

 _I can’t do it, I can’t_ , Clark’s eyes said, and _You will_ , said Bruce’s eyes. _You will because you are strong, and because I love you_. They stood there and looked for a long time. They would learn to do this with their eyes, to say everything this way.

"Lunch tomorrow?" Clark said, because tomorrow was Thursday.

"Sure," Bruce said again. And now Clark’s hand was on the doorknob, and with what reserve of strength he did not know he possessed, but which he suspected was poured into his spine by Bruce’s eyes, he turned the knob and walked out of that room without a backward look.

He left his blood on the stairs with every step, and was drained empty by the bottom. There was nothing left to feel.


End file.
